


Kinks of the Magi

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Belly Kink, Christmas, Chubby Kink, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, M/M, Weight Gain, chubby!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9008602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: Steve and Bucky swap contradictory gifts, and kinky hijinks ensue. :) For iwritetheweirdstuff's Kinky Little Christmas challenge!





	

“Damn, that’s your boyfriend?” Natasha asks, peering over Bucky’s shoulder at the screen of his laptop.

“That’s him,” Bucky says. “Steve, meet Nat, she’s the Chief Warrant Officer, flies one of the Kiowas. Nat, this is Steve.” 

“I thought you said he was a graphic designer,” Nat whispers in Bucky’s ear. “He looks like a model.” 

“Speaking of which,” Bucky directs this toward Steve in the Skype window. “Isn’t it gym o’clock out there?” 

“Taking a break for my birthday,” Steve says. “Some of the guys are even taking me out for dinner later.” 

“Well, you eat a piece of cake and think of me,” Bucky says, with feeling. He’d like Steve to eat cake every day and think of him, but that’s not in the cards, apparently. Hell, he’d like to feed him cake in person, but that’s not happening, either, not from Afghanistan. 

“I will,” Steve says. “Oh, and I got your present, by the way." He pulls a large crate into view of the camera, tilting it to show its contents. “This is great, Bucky, really. I didn’t even know this was a thing.” 

“What is it?” Nat asks. 

“It’s a FitFix,” Bucky explains. “They send you different fitness supplies every month. What was in that one, Stevie?” 

Steve pulls out several items and holds them up so Bucky can see. “It’s pretty cool, actually. UnderArmor t-shirt, some supplements, some protein shakes, a heart rate monitor, and these,” he holds up a complicated-looking device and squeezes the handle. “Fat calipers.” 

“Good luck with that,” Bucky says. “There’s nothing to caliper.” 

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “There’s a little.” He lifts up his shirt and pinches a fold of skin between the jaws of the calipers. It might be Bucky’s imagination – it probably is – but it seems like maybe there’s a little more to pinch than usual. Steve still has visible abs, even reclining on the sofa, even on a lousy Skype connection, but the fact that Steve can get anything at all into the calipers is unusual. He bites his lip and waits for the verdict. 

“Just a little under 10%,” Steve says. “Not bad.” 

“Aren’t you usually under 7?” 

“Usually,” Steve says, smiling. 

“Well, happy birthday,” Bucky says, but if Steve’s really up 3% in body fat, it might as well be Bucky’s birthday. 

*

As soon as he’s off the call with Bucky, Steve picks up the little card that had come with the FitFix crate. _Someone loves you…and your abs!_ it says, and then, at the bottom, _Happy Birthday, punk._

“Thanks, jerk,” Steve says fondly, setting the card aside and poking through the biodegradable foam peanuts for one of the protein bars included in this month’s shipment. He eats it determinedly, even though he’s leaving for dinner with Tony and Clint in less than an hour. Even though he’s not really hungry. 

Steve had whittled himself down to 7% bodyfat eating lean protein and vegetables, he’d lifted weights until he could bench a compact car, he’d run miles through the park every other day, all in an attempt to look good for Bucky. But whenever they were out together, as much as Bucky obviously liked him, he never looked at Steve _that way,_ the way he looked at the guy eating a stack of pancakes at the diner, or the guys in bars washing down huge platters of nachos with pitchers of beer. Big guys, guys with big shoulders and thick arms and round middles, guys with beer bellies resting on their laps, construction workers with tool belts wrapped around chunky hips, jeans slung low under flannel-clad guts.  

Not that Bucky didn’t find him attractive, didn’t love him. He obviously does. But _that_ look, that abject, helpless, lustful look, that look like Bucky was completely undone, had never landed on Steve. So when Bucky had announced his imminent deployment to Afghanistan, Steve had decided to do something about it, as a kind of surprise. 

Bucky would be back by Christmas, and Steve fully intended to be at least thirty pounds heavier by then. It seems like an achievable goal, given that he’d already put on fifteen since Bucky had left in March. 

He might even go higher. 

It’s a little scary. He’d been the epitome of the 98-pound weakling through most of his teenage years, and all his life, he’d dreamed of being bigger. But when he’d imagined it, he’d seen himself more or less like he is now - muscular, athletic, strong – not _fat._ But if Bucky liked bigger guys, well. The choice was clear. 

Then, too, there was the near-superstitious feeling he had about this latest project, like maybe if he does this, it will guarantee that Bucky makes it home alive. 

He picks up the card again. _Someone loves you…and your abs!_ Half of that is bullshit, Steve knows. But not for long. 

*

“I’ll have the Hangover Burger with waffle fry nachos. And a Coke,” Steve says, quickly, before he can change his mind.

“Diet?” “Regular.” 

“The side order of waffle fries?” 

“The full order.” 

Both the waitress and the two men on the other side of the table stare at him for a solid ten seconds, blinking. “Okay,” the waitress says, finally. “Got it. I’ll be right back with your drinks.” 

“Oh,” Steve says, holding up his hand to stop her. “And one of those milkshakes. Irish Cream. Large.” 

She adds the order to their ticket, eyebrows up.

There’s a brief silence as she walks away. 

“What?” Steve asks. “I’m allowed to have a cheat day.” 

“Hey, no judgment here,” Clint says, holding up his hands. “I’m just surprised. It’s been egg white omelets and grilled chicken for as long as I can remember.” 

“It’s his birthday,” Tony says mildly, folding his straw wrapper into a tiny accordion and springing it between his finger and his thumb. “If he wants to eat his bodyweight in grease and carbs, it’s his prerogative.” 

“That’s right,” Steve says. “It is. And I do. Want to.” 

When his food arrives – god, it’s so, so much, more than he’s eaten in one sitting in his whole life – he picks up his burger and takes a huge bite, letting a little juice run down his chin. Then he takes a selfie and Snapchats it to Bucky.

*

“It’s a scale with a body composition setting,” Steve says, holding the scale up to the computer screen. “And some more t-shirts, and sport insoles, and some noise-cancelling earbud covers, and some snacks. There’s a Builder’s Bar in here, a new flavor. Coconut-almond.” He unwraps it and takes a huge bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s good,” he announces, checking the label. “Jesus, these things have a lot of sugar. 25 grams.”

“Really?” Bucky says, a little weakly. He peers into his laptop screen. Steve looks different. Not a _lot,_ but enough that it’s noticeable. If he’d been there in New York, seeing Steve every day, he probably wouldn’t have noticed at all, but since they only Skype once every few weeks, the change is striking. 

Steve hasn’t shaved, for one thing, and his face is shadowed with heavy stubble. It should make his face look hollow, emphasizing the steep slant of his cheekbones, but it doesn’t; Steve’s face looks fuller. And his chest looks improbably wider, and – is it just wishful thinking? – the tiniest bit soft? 

“So you’re liking the boxes?” Bucky asks. “Did, uh, you try the scale out yet?” 

“Nah, not yet,” Steve says, his mouth still full. “I’ll try it now.” 

He turns the computer so Bucky has a view of the living room, and sets the scale down on the floor a few feet away. As he steps on it, Bucky notices that he’s wearing one of his new UnderArmor shirts. It’s skintight and revealing. Shirts like that usually show off every cut muscle in Steve’s torso, emphasizing his narrow waist, but his waist doesn’t look quite as narrow as usual, and the shirtsleeves dig into his thick biceps a little. He looks softer all over, and there’s a little, barely-perceptible roll around his waist that Bucky would swear hadn’t been there before. 

“What’s -” he breaks off, clears his throat. “Uh, what’s the verdict?” 

“Two-fifteen,” Steve announces. “Huh. That can’t be right.” He picks up the scale and examines the settings buttons on the back. “Guess I must be overdoing it a little,” he says, shrugging and setting the scale aside. “Probably because I miss you.” 

Bucky’s brain blows a few circuits.

_Two-fifteen._ Steve had been holding steady at one-ninety for years. As soon as they disconnect, Bucky slides his privacy curtain closed and slides a hand down his pants. Twenty-five pounds. Steve had gained twenty-five fucking pounds. That’s why his chest looked so soft, why he had a little roll around his belly. That’s why his cheeks looked rounder, why his arms looked bigger. God. _God._ And if he kept going like this – that was, what, twenty-five pounds in a little under five months? – he’d throw on another twenty-five, easy, by the time Bucky got home in December. “Fuck,” Bucky whispers into his pillow. “Fuck, _fuck_ , fuck me.” 

*

A week later, waiting to start a routine patrol, Nat glances over at Bucky, who’s studying his phone screen, eyes wide.

“Another snap from your boy?” she asks, then, “Damn, he’s really packing it on, isn’t he? Look at that, he’s almost got a double chin. I thought you were sending him fitness boxes.” 

“I am. I…” he doesn’t even know what to say. _I am, but only because it used to be all he liked to do, and this is a thousand times better?_

“Still cute,” Nat opines, hopping up into her seat. 

A week after that, Bucky gets another picture, this time of Steve, surrounded by takeout boxes, chopsticks poking out of a box of noodles. After that, it’s empty plates at the diner, a packed fast food sack on the passenger seat of the car, a carton of ice cream with a spoon sticking out of it. 

It’s driving Bucky wild. 

About a week before the next FitFix is supposed to be delivered, Bucky logs on to the website and adjusts the settings. He changes Steve’s shirt sizes from Small/Medium to Large/X-Large. He checks off boxes to include more food, and fewer workout supplies. He adds a measuring tape and a little tube of cocoa butter lotion to the next delivery. 

He gets a Snapchat picture of the tape wrapped around Steve’s waist, the end lapping around the number 36. 

Bucky immediately hits the shower, slides a soapy hand around himself, and comes in less than thirty seconds, so hard his knees buckle. 

*

Six months after Bucky’s deployment, Steve stands in the bathroom and turns sideways, admiring his handiwork.

He’s got a belly now – not much of one, just a slight outward curve above the waistband of his jeans, but enough that it’s noticeable. 

It’s a little embarrassing. 

At work, people have started to notice, and give him shit about it. He’s never been overweight in his life, and he’s used to getting admiring looks in the elevator, envious once-overs from some of the other guys in his office. Now he finds himself getting slow, up and down looks with raised eyebrows, and offhand remarks like, “Finally got tired of the gym?” or “Looks like you’re eating your feelings, Rogers.” 

The weird thing is, he kind of likes it. Likes people noticing the changes in his body, likes getting bigger, feeling just a little too full all the time. It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe food really could be a comfort during Bucky’s absence, but it absolutely is, and the look on Bucky’s face whenever they Skype – that’s pretty fucking gratifying, too. 

He gets The Look now. _That_ look, the tinge of color across the tops of Bucky’s cheekbones, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his mouth soft. He hears the sharp inward breath Bucky takes when Steve leans back on the sofa and pats his middle or complains about how full he is. 

He’d known Bucky would like this, but he hadn’t expected to like it. Hadn’t expected it to be so pleasurable, so weirdly erotic. But it is. 

He gathers the snacks from his latest fitness crate – two huge protein bars, a bag of 24 raw macaroons that clock in at 150 calories apiece, a few bags of trail mix with dried fruit, cashews and chocolate-covered peanuts - and heads out for work. 

*

By October, Steve can’t button any of his jeans. It had been a long time coming; first he’d had to start pushing them down, wearing them lower on his hips and fastening them under the little curve of his belly. Then he’d had to start lying back on his bed and sucking in to get the button to close. Then he’d started looping a rubber band around the button and through the frayed buttonhole, buying himself an extra inch.

Now he just plain can’t close them no matter what he does, and even just pulling them up over chunky hips and thighs is a struggle. 

It feels a little weird, looking down at himself and seeing inches of soft, pudgy chub sitting over the waistband of unbuttoned jeans. He looks truly out of shape, an ex-jock who can still hit the weights but probably prefers to hit a buffet. 

It’s a little embarrassing and a lot arousing, and Steve doesn’t really even consider changing out of his ridiculously tight jeans before he opens Skype and calls Bucky. 

Steve hears Bucky’s voice before his face appears on the screen, a somewhat choked, “Jesus, pal,” tumbling out of his mouth the moment the connection is made. Apparently Bucky can see Steve – can see the way his white UnderArmour shirt is clinging to him like a sausage casing, from thick biceps to softened chest to the embarrassing ring of fat that stretches around his waist, from visible love handles to protruding belly. 

“Hey,” Steve says, leaning forward a little bit, his eyes darting to the corner of the screen where he can see his own reflection, where, shit, an inch or two of tummy is actually exposed where his athletic shirt has ridden up, and his double chin is probably visible from space. Two little bright spots of color pop up on the apples of his—chubbier—cheeks, and he jerks his eyes up from the corner of the screen to focus on Bucky instead. Bucky, who is sprawled in his bunk, shirtless and stunning, all sleek muscles and angles, eyes wide and intent. 

Bucky doesn’t even bother with a greeting in return. “You can’t button your jeans,” he blurts, as if he’s informing Steve of something he doesn’t already know. 

Steve looks down at his belly, where it’s spilling over his waistband, and then back up at the screen. He shrugs a little, and even though he _wants_ this attention from Bucky, wants it so badly it almost undoes him, he can’t help but to tug his shirt down a little, make an attempt to cover up the inch or two of belly fat that’s showing. “I—I guess I need to get some new ones. Halloween candy, probably,” he says weakly, thinking of the bag of candy corn he’d munched through this afternoon, or the bag of peanut butter Snickers he’d taken down the day before. 

The corner of Bucky’s pretty pink mouth curls up, and his grin lights up the whole screen. “You’ve been working on that since before Halloween, Stevie.”

Steve pats his tummy lightly, trying to ignore the hot, shock-y feeling that runs up his spine at the way his gut bounces under his palm. “Maybe a little.” 

Bucky coughs, shifting on his bunk. “You oughtta get those calipers out again, pal. Just for curiosity’s sake.”

Steve feels himself blush a little harder. “I think I’m up a little more,” he says.

“Yeah, maybe just a little.” 

*

Steve’s new jeans, two sizes up, are a relief, especially because he wears them to “Friendsgiving” at Tony’s house, which makes it much easier to eat seconds—and thirds—of absolutely everything. Everyone gives him shit, but it’s mostly good-natured. “My god, Rogers, where are you putting all that?” Tony asks him. “Right here, obviously,” Barton chimes in before Steve can answer, thumping his taut belly and snickering. “Blowing up, dude.” Steve brushes it off, but it sends a little tingle of thrilling, complicated embarrassment up his spine. He, maybe, sort of, likes it.

But when he gets home that night, stuffed to the gills with turkey and mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, cornbread and green beans swimming in grease, heavily buttered yeast rolls, pumpkin and pecan and apple pie, miserable with too much food, stomach swollen up obscenely, even his new jeans digging into the soft, sensitive skin of his lower belly, he has a moment of pause. 

He hasn’t been able to talk to Bucky today; his whole unit is doing something off-base, out in the field – and that is probably one of the reasons he’d eaten so fucking much at Tony’s, trying to distract himself from the constant, low-grade thrum of terror for Bucky’s safety that he always has when Bucky’s unit is on the move. 

He undresses slowly and stands in the bathroom, looking at himself in the full-length mirror. He looks—well. Not quite fat, exactly; he weighed himself just the other day, and he’s up to 229, which is probably still just in chubby territory. But he looks swollen, pudgy all over, and although no part of his body is unchanged, the bulk of the extra fat has landed directly on his waist, mostly out in front in what, at the moment, is a full-on beer gut. The remainder is mostly piling onto his sides to form surprisingly thick love handles, making the extra flesh on his ribs fold into rolls whenever he moves. 

And all that pudge at his middle? It hasn’t come without a few consequences. There are, to Steve’s dismay, several pinkish-red lines snaking up the soft curve of his lower belly. Stretchmarks. Jesus. 

He knows, absolutely _knows_. that Bucky likes this. But a part of him, a little voice in the back of his head that he can’t quite turn off, won’t stop questioning it. Maybe the reason Bucky never mentioned liking bigger guys is that he wanted it to remain a fantasy. Maybe wanting to check out a guy with a beer gut didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to _date_ a guy with a beer gut. Maybe wanting to fantasize about something didn’t translate into wanting your boyfriend to pack on forty pounds, getting so tubby his skin literally can’t keep up with all his new fat. 

Steve doesn’t want to feel insecure. He spent too many years of his life, all of his adolescence, feeling like his body didn’t measure up, like he didn’t look right. He doesn’t want to feel that way now; doesn’t want to second guess himself or Bucky. 

But Jesus, he looks like a carnival mirror version of the guy he’d been when Bucky had deployed eight months ago, and Bucky’s going to be home in four short weeks. Suddenly, all those thousands of miles of distance between them—the one-step remove of Snapchat and Skype and email and text—feel like they’ve been a buffer, almost like a fantasy land, and Steve realizes he’s a little terrified of how Bucky’s going to react when he sees Steve in the flesh for the first time.

*

It helps, when Bucky Skypes him the next morning, safely back in camp and grinning from ear to ear, asking if Steve had had a good Thanksgiving.

Spending the next few weeks stuffing himself stupid on Christmas food – cookies and sweets, holiday potlucks and parties, boxes of donuts from his favorite bakery covered in red and green sprinkles – also helps. It helps Steve relax, and it helps him put on another twelve pounds. By the time Steve’s waiting for Bucky’s plane to land on December 22, he’s clocking in at 241 pounds, his new jeans are starting to feel increasingly like his old jeans, and he’s wearing his winter coat open in front, since he can’t manage to pull the buttons together over his belly or his chest. 

*

This is Bucky’s third deployment since he and Steve have been together, so the feeling of coming home—the anticipation, the relief, the weird bone-deep exhaustion that comes with it—is familiar. This time, though, all of those feelings are sharp and new, heightened with the added thrill of knowing how different Steve’s going to look this time – how wonderfully, inexplicably chubby he’s gotten in Bucky’s absence.

And he’s gotten seriously chubby. The pictures, the Skype calls, the Snaps – they don’t lie. Steve’s been pudging up for months, and it almost takes Bucky’s breath away, how much he wants to see Steve – and how much he wants to see how much _more_ of Steve there is. 

When he’s finally there, finally been allowed to file off the plane and through the concourse, Bucky’s almost vibrating, he wants to see Steve so badly. He’s missed him – his new chub aside, Bucky just wants to see him, period. 

And when he sees him? When he finally claps eyes on him, as he’s still making his way through the security gate? Jesus fucking Christ. Steve’s huge, he looks chubbier than he had on screen, and so gorgeous, so _good_ , so comforting and familiar and yet wildly, thrillingly different, that Bucky feels like his heart might stop. 

“Hey,” he says weakly, when he finally gets to Steve and throws his arms around him, unabashed and happy. His throat doesn’t quite work; he needs a minute, just to hug Steve and breathe in the smell of him, deodorant and shampoo and toothpaste and _him_. “Hey, Buck.” Steve’s voice is low, almost shy, just a murmur against Bucky’s throat. It makes him feel weirdly protective, Steve’s little hesitance, and Bucky pulls Steve even closer, breathing him in. 

“So fucking glad to see you, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and then slides his hand between the two of them, under the open flaps of Steve’s coat, and palms the curve of his belly, quick and surreptitious. 

Steve’s cheeks flush a little, adorable and pink, and Bucky gives his tummy a quick, firm squeeze before he steps back. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

*

After nine months apart, neither of them are quite ready to be social, so they turn down a slew of holiday invitations. On Christmas morning they stay home drinking coffee and eating pastries, cuddled up under the world’s scraggliest Christmas tree – the only one that had been left on the lot when they’d gone to get one on the 23rd—and lazily opening their presents.

And once their gifts are open, once Steve has plowed through the better part of a dozen chocolate croissants, nearly all of which Bucky had handed to him, and massive amounts of Chinese delivery, they end up sprawled across the couch, making out like teenagers. When they’ve kissed, and kissed, and kissed, their mouths sticky sweet with chocolate and coffee and wontons and fortune cookies, Bucky finally slithers down Steve’s body, dropping kisses on his round belly as he goes and shoving his sweats down gracelessly. 

The feeling of Bucky’s mouth on his cock, hot and insistent and dirty in all the best ways, feels so good Steve can’t stifle a groan, and his hips start to roll almost immediately. He could come so quick like this, so easy, so _easy_ —

“Hey, I forgot to tell you,” Bucky suddenly says, pulling off of Steve’s dick with an obscene pop. 

Steve blinks, trying to keep up, chest heaving. “Tell me what?”

“Your other gift,” Bucky says, grinning through swollen, shiny lips, looking debauched and happy and beautiful. “I canceled your FitFix and signed you up for a Cheesecake of the Week thing.” 

Steve stares for a second, processing, before he finds some words. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. A cheesecake a _week_? That’s crazy.” 

“I know.” Bucky smiles even wider, filthy and happy, one hand wrapped around Steve’s cock and the other clutching his belly. “If you got this chubby on Fitfix, imagine what you’ll look like next Christmas.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, and he can feel his cheeks burning even though he’s not _really embarrassed_ , not really. “So I guess you don’t mind?” 

“Are you kidding?” Bucky blinks, and his smoky eyes get serious for a second. He pulls himself up, climbing up Steve’s body until he’s hovering over him, flat abs flush against Steve’s fat tummy, and he’s looking straight into Steve’s face. “I loved you when you were ripped to shreds, and I love you now, when you’re definitely not”—he reaches down and pokes his index finger into Steve’s pudgy side for emphasis—“and I’d love you any other way you happened to be, you idiot. But…” He slides his hand around, edging it between their bodies until he has a generous handful of Steve’s gut and squeezes. “But if you put on a little—or a lot—more of this?” He jiggles his hand again, like he just can’t quite resist the temptation to do it. “Jesus, baby. I don’t think I’ll stop touching you, ever.”

Steve ducks his head, feeling simultaneously a rush of relief and a bit of embarrassment that he’d needed that reassurance so badly. “Pervert,” he mumbles, couching his affection in eye rolls. 

“Takes one to know one, pal.” Bucky shakes his head in mock seriousness. “Snapchatting me pictures of your belly all goddamned deployment. You slut.” 

Steve grins, and it feels so good it’s almost unspeakable, to be lying here on the couch in front of their shoddy Christmas tree, Bucky whole and healthy and safe in his arms, warm and full and sated. “Uh huh. Merry Christmas, Buck.” 

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come celebrate the holidays (and chubby!superheroes) with us in the dumpster, at [d-lightfulexcess](http://d-lightfulexcess.tumblr.com/) and [missjanedoeeyes](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
